The Casket
by FuchsiaMae
Summary: Riff gets jealous and does something he regrets. ROTOQ-inspired, Riff/Magenta, Riff's POV. Features incest and character death.


**A/N**: My longest, least overtly sexy, and probably best-written Rocky fic. The proper ending is at the asterisks; what follows is a hastily-written epilogue for readers like me who subsist on happy fluffy endings.

**Disclaimer**: The Rocky Horror Picture Show and all associated characters belong to the very talented and very sexy Richard O'Brien.

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**The Casket**

The casket was finished today. It's made of black wood, and lined with silk of vivid scarlet, her favorite color. I've had it brought up to our room. It sits open, waiting.

I gather her up in my arms and place her in it, gently, as if she was made of glass. She feels so light. I remember when we were children, she'd fall asleep and I'd carry her back to her bed just like this. When she had nightmares, or when she was lonely, she'd crawl into bed with me, and I never could bring myself to return her to her room. She always looked so peaceful.

If I use my imagination a little, I can pretend she's sleeping now. Seeing her lying there, so still, so beautiful, I can almost forget her treachery. Almost.

I let so many things slide in the past, tried to ignore them, tried to pretend each inviting glance in someone else's direction didn't pierce my heart like a needle. I even tolerated the little Earth female—but this latest betrayal I could not bear.

_Him._

How could she? After all the times she said I was all she needed, how could she go behind my back to that miserable excuse for a life-form? Even now I can't help but imagine his fat fingers caressing her skin, his great sloppy mouth devouring hers, defiling my pristine angel. Even now it makes me sick.

Imagine, then, how it drove me wild before, when any moment she was out of my sight she could be in his arms. In my mind's eye, my worst nightmare had come true. She had found someone more desirable than I. She was going to leave me. My sister, the one thing in all the universe I could truly call my own, was going to leave me.

At first it was he who took the brunt of my heart's fury. It was his fault, it had to be. He had tricked her, blackmailed her, _something_. She would never hurt me so of her own free will.

Would she?

And then came the poisonous thought: _she didn't love me anymore_—perhaps she never had. All through our romance, all our _lives_, she had been lying to me. I was a safety net, a meal ticket, nothing more. How long had she been deceiving me? With her looks she could have anyone she wanted, and I knew her appetite—he could not have been the first. And even if I killed him, as I so deeply wanted to, he would not be the last. I would have to take more decisive action.

And so I did what I had to do.

She won't leave me now. She will be forever untainted, forever perfect, forever mine.

But it comes at a price. Her heartbeat is gone; its soothing sound will never lull me to sleep again. I'll never hear her voice again; never see her lovely smile again. I can kiss her, touch her, but she'll never respond. The light is gone from her eyes. Her skin is ashen and cold.

I stroke her cheek with a finger as I take in the tableau I've created. Gothic, dark and beautiful—she would've appreciated it. Red hair, black gown, red silk, black box… and the ugly purple bruises encircling her throat. They are the only thing marring her perfect beauty, and I put them there. I've tried to cover them with makeup, but no matter what I do they are always present, accusing me silently. I hurt her. I committed that one unspeakable crime: I harmed my angel, my darling, the loveliest creature in existence.

It was cruel of me. I wish now I had not done it. I love her, I do; there is proof of that still on her body. Here, where her shoulder meets her neck: the tiny scar left by so many of my blood-drawing kisses. No more of those. If I nipped her now as I used to, there would be no tiny gasp of pleasure mixed with pain, no blood would bead on her pale flesh, the wound would never heal. It would be just one more thing evidencing my guilt.

Despairing, I rest my head on her shoulder. Normally she would have returned the embrace. She would have murmured words of comfort and left lipstick prints on the top of my head. Now… She doesn't even smell like her anymore. Her warm scent has been replaced by the acrid tang of the chemicals I used to preserve her. The thought of my beautiful sister _rotting_ like a dead thing is more than I can bear. And when I think of her whispering those sweet, deadly words—_I love you_—in _his_ ear instead of mine…

But maybe she never loved him. He's certainly not physically attractive, at least not to my eyes, but he has money and power enough to supply her with things I would never be able to. Could it have been those perks, rather than love, that drew her to him?

Even if that were the case, it just makes me a different kind of failure. Did I fail you, sweet sister? I was never good enough, I know, but somehow I dared to hope…

I press my lips to hers, slipping my tongue into her mouth. She tastes like formaldehyde. I hope it poisons me.

There's a pack of cigarettes on the table. Her cigarettes—I never much enjoyed them, or I didn't use to. I light one and inhale deeply. Yes, this tastes like her. I should smoke these more often—ten, twelve packs a day. I take morbid delight in envisioning my as-yet-to-be-fostered addiction: I'll use up every cent I've got buying them, ruin what little health I have remaining, die on the streets with her smoke in my lungs. Could I die if I inhaled too much in one sitting? Might be worth a try.

I return to her and hold the lit cigarette to her lips. Would you care for a smoke, my sweet? No? But of course, there is no breath left to draw. One could almost imagine that she holds her breath just to toy with me, that she waits for a satisfactory display of remorse, that we could kiss and make up and this whole nightmare would be over—

Yes! Yes, this is all just some foolish misunderstanding—it must be. Or a game! Yes, she loves games. Any moment she'll open her eyes: surprise, surprise! I tricked you, my silly brother. Wasn't that fun?

She can't really be—I couldn't have—

But I did. I killed her.

_I KILLED HER!_

No. No, no, no no no. It can't be. It… it can't…

"Magenta," I say softly, shaking her shoulder, "wake up." She doesn't move. "Wake up." Still nothing. "WAKE UP!" I scream in desperation, and before I realize what I'm doing, I slap her.

I freeze, horrified. "Magenta, darling, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," I murmur frantically. "I didn't mean to, I didn't. Please forgive me. Please." The last word becomes a litany: "Please, please, please, please, please."

I'm sorry, Magenta; so sorry, for everything. I love you. I'll never hurt you again, I promise. Just wake up, little sister. Just come back to me. I love you. I need you. Don't leave me.

I can't hold the tears back any longer. I bury my face in her hair, sobbing deep, wrenching sobs. "_Please_."

_*.*.*_

"Riff Raff?"

I wake to her gently shaking my shoulder. My eyes open to meet hers, their green depths brimming with concern.

_Alive_.

Fates be praised, she's alive.

I lock her in an unyielding embrace. My sweet little sister, my Magenta, not cold at all, but warm and breathing and here in my arms. I love you, my darling, and I'll never let you go, ever.

She is startled when I snatch her up, but hugs me back like the good little sister she is. Her hand moves to stroke my hair. "Riff, are you alright? You were crying."

Crying? I must have been crying in my sleep. Of course I was asleep, of course; it was all a dream and she's here with me now. "I'm fine, Magenta. Just a nightmare."

"Want to tell me about it?"

No, my love, I don't know if I can. All a lie, anyway. A filthy lie. I would never hurt you. Never.

Even if you strayed...

But you wouldn't. Of course you wouldn't. You're my sister. You love me.

Don't you?

"Riff?"

I ask quietly, "Do you love me, Magenta?"

She looks surprised at the question. "Of course I do. I love you more than anything."

More than anything. More than anything. I kiss her gently; she still looks a bit lost, but again complies without question. I break the kiss after a long moment and murmur, "Go back to sleep, angel."

She snuggles down beside me, ready to pretend that nothing happened. As am I—I'm more than ready to forget that dream. Ridiculous, anyway, the idea I'd ever hurt her. No matter how angry I get. She is my little treasure, the love of my life, always. I wrap her again in my arms, warm and safe and mine. She's alive, and she is mine.


End file.
